


Should Like to Know the Story of that Smile

by sungabraverday



Series: Hard Times for Dreamers [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungabraverday/pseuds/sungabraverday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Cosette<br/>In Victorian Lit trade<br/>Poems in margins</p><p>Or: that one in which Cosette and Jehan are the best of friends, and Cosette recruits him to join the ABC Agency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. should like to know the story of that smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accidental meeting on the first day of class and someone who reads Cosette like an open book are the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and they both know it.

The first day of her first literature requirement class - Introduction to Victorian Poetry - Cosette picked a chair just off center on the third row. It was the ideal spot, close enough to hear the professor clearly, far enough away to see the projector clearly, and perfect for paying attention but not appearing too much of a keener. 

The class filled in around her, and a pretty boy with a terrible sense of style sat down beside her, smiling dreamily. She smiled back, but he pulled out a notebook, and started doodling in the margins, and Cosette turned back to watching the professor struggle to set up the Powerpoint slides. 

The class seemed fairly good. She wasn’t exactly a literature person, but the professor was clearly enthusiastic, even if he had never managed to make the projector work properly. And she had heard of some of the poets before, and they weren’t all male, and those were already massive improvements over the Shakespearean class she had almost enrolled in. 

The moment the lecture finished, the boy beside her turned to her without even reaching for his bag. “I wrote a poem, but I can’t think what to call it. D’you think you could help me?”

Cosette blinked. “You wrote a poem? Like, in class?”

He bit his lip, blushing, and nodded. “Would you?”

“I...” She looked him over once, and decided that no, he wasn’t a threat, which was a refreshing change from the number of frat boys who had tried to chat her up so far that week. She could do with a friend. She paused, and made her call. “Do you have another class now? Maybe we could get coffee and chat for a bit, and I could think of something?”

He positively lit up. She smiled back, and made a shooing motion to get him to clear out the row, which he promptly did.

They found a little table in the corner of the coffee shop, each with a mug of their fair trade brew. The conversation was easy and comfortable, like they had known each other for years longer than the mere hours since they’d first met. It meandered through their classes and planned majors - the boy, who introduced himself as Samuel “like Coleridge”, was a communications major, with a minor in literature - on to their families - briefly, because Cosette pulled a face - and eventually settled into politics, which despite all the rules was a remarkably peaceful conversation.

Finally, at a lull, he slid a sheet of paper across the table at her. “I’m really sorry if it comes across as creepy,” he started, but Cosette held up her hand to cut him off, already reading.

It was written in blank verse, and that was impressive enough because it had been written during class, but it was written with skill and phenomenal imagery. And it was unmistakably about her - but it wasn’t just platitudes about her golden locks, like she had unconsciously prepared for. He wrote about her “steely spine” and her “old and black / and muddied boots” and yes, she was beautiful in it but she was terrible and powerful too. 

She looked up and held his eyes. “This is really good.” He blushed again, and she kept on. “Seriously, it’s gorgeous. And we’d never said a word, but you had me pegged. And I’d like to know the story of your smile, so I think we’re set on that front.”

Samuel had turned a magnificent shade of pink, and very pointedly took a sip of his now quite cold coffee to get his emotions under control, and Cosette said nothing more. Finally, he asked, “so what should I call it?”

Cosette thought for a moment, and then answered, “call it Cosette.”

He blinked, and she could imagine exactly what he was thinking. She knew the poem was about her, but she had very definitely given it a name that was not her own - Michelle. It was begging the question, but it was one she wasn’t prepared to answer just yet.

She should have said Michelle, but... Michelle was a piece of paper or five, a fictional entity that she donned like a costume. She was Cosette, where it mattered. That was who she chose. And that was who Samuel had written about.

It felt like an age before Samuel nodded, and slid the piece of paper back across the table and wrote her name across the top of the page. “One day,” he said shyly, as he slid the paper into his bag, “I’d like to hear that story.”

Cosette shook her head. “Not likely. Not for a very long time.”

He smiled and accepted it, and she knew that she had made a life-long friend. “I’ll be here when you’re ready,” he said, and she smiled again. If she couldn’t give him the story of her smile, then the least she could do was give him that.


	2. traded poems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of poems, back and forth, written for each other's eyes only. Half-confessions and half-truths and a whole lot of platonic love.

Cosette

This girl – I know her not – is like a lamp:  
Glowing, she draws me close enough to burn.  
A seraph, her fiery golden tresses fall,  
Cascading rapids down her steely spine.  
Her laugh is like the lark’s sweet call at dawn;  
Her eyes speak words of sorrows I know not.  
She reaches forward with a righteous hand  
To show us all the path to better worlds  
And there ensures that lasting good is done.  
She blinks and cities crumble like old Troy.  
She seeks it not. Her feet don old and black  
And muddied boots, to keep as grounded as  
The tallest trees of ancient forests green.  
Her only fear is that she would forget  
To be as human in true spirit as in form.  
She’s enigma and she’s answers – and I  
Should like to know the story of that smile.

\---

I Fully Respect the Villanelle Now, Sam

I’m not fragile, I don’t need saving,  
I’m not going to fall apart –  
But for you I might try changing.

The lines of my sanity might be fading  
But you can write it on my chart:  
I’m not fragile, I don’t need saving.

I was sitting just idly day-dreaming  
When you showed me your works of art,  
So for you I might try changing.

The world outside is caving  
And god, it’s going to smart  
But I’m not fragile, I don’t need saving.

There are secrets I’m not sharing  
But you know what’s in my heart,  
So for you I might try changing.

Now some might think I’m raving  
But I don’t want a fresh start  
Because I’m not fragile, I don’t need saving.  
But for you? I might try changing.

\---

You Are The Sun That Lights My Day (Ode to Friendship)

You are the sun that lights my day –  
Our peers are fools if they do not think this love.  
I do not care what people say,  
You are the sun that lights my day.  
Their company is no price to pay  
To know such a soul from up above  
For you are the sun that lights my day,  
And they are fools if they do not think this love.

\---

One Day

I will tell you and  
I hope you’ll stay. What would be  
A world without you?

\---

Don’t Worry

You fret too much Cosette my dear.  
I like you quite a lot I fear  
And I think you forget something else that’s true:  
Now you’re in my life, and I need you too.

\---

Ironically

I’m glad this lot got over sonnet times,  
I can’t write two iambic rhyming lines.

\---  
Like Coleridge 

My path in life was set  
When “Samuel John” they said  
Patted my head and pinched my cheek  
And left me lying in that damned bed.

I’m quite sure they did not know  
And indeed to other souls it may not seem  
That this was quite the fate it was  
But I know it put me in this stream.

The Romantics, they say  
Value natural order over human imposition  
And that may be but  
This is not a comfortable position.

I’m doomed to die  
Too soon, or with drugs in my veins  
It’s too much, too much  
And I doubt I’ll be rewarded for my pains.

Can I change this?  
Perhaps if I start afresh I can.  
What’s that? My name?  
Henceforth I go by Jehan.

\---

What Is Good?

I cannot be good  
When there are quite so many  
Deaths strewn in my wake

\---

Stop

Stop it with haikus  
Japanese, not English, forms  
(but I love you still)

\---

Confessions (Story of a Smile)

You knew me before I ever opened my mouth  
And muddied a perfectly good portrait –  
But there are a few things you missed.

If my laugh is like a lark’s morning call  
Then the morning in my wake is one of mothers wailing and children without parents –  
And I don’t feel half as bad about that as I should.

I blink and cities crumble, but not like Troy of old,  
Plaything of deities and supernatural pow’rs.  
No, this is all human design and explosions and wrath.  
It is not great.  
It is not worth songs and poems and eternal remembrance.  
I hope they all forget.

I fear to lose my humanity too, it’s true,  
But the boots are simply because I know  
Stilettos are impressive, but no good in a fight  
And I never know when that (or flight) will be all I have.

I burn, Jehan.  
I burn like a moth drawn toward the candle, too close and catching light.  
I burn low and slow like coal, coughing up black fumes to hide the truth.  
I burn bright like an angel of vengeance.  
I burn with no regard for the destruction I leave behind.

I would like to say that it’s all about restoring order and balance, but –  
I don’t know that.  
I just…  
I don’t.

You ask the story of my smile.  
I don’t know how I keep it still.  
I’ve been fighting for ten years,  
But I smile just the same.  
It scares me a bit.

I think I might stop if you leave now.  
That scares me more.


	3. the you i know is exquisite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their poetry trading days are over, but their friendship is as strong and ever. The only catch is that to keep it up, Cosette will need to spill the biggest secret of all - and pull Jehan headlong into the messiest part of her life.

The Introduction to Victorian Poetry exam finished, Cosette and Jehan wandered over to their favourite coffee shop. It was bright and full of light and served the absolute best fair trade coffee on the campus. And if you knew where you were going, there was a little hallway that lead into a smaller and quieter area where the regulars or cramming students tended to congregate. It was there that the pair took their refreshingly warm drinks and sat, chatting about the exam. 

"Seriously," Cosette said, "I'll never forget blank verse after that poem at the beginning of the semester."

He beamed back at her. "Always happy to help. No villanelles on there though."

"Stupid contradictory forms those are. I can't believe you persuaded me to write one."

"But you've never forgotten what it is, have you?"

"I still prefer haikus."

"Of course you do."

Cosette reached across the table, giving his arm a playful punch. "Stop it! Just because I'm not a humanities person, you give me so much grief."

"You're my favourite! That's why!"

Cosette dimmed instantly, and Jehan took her hands in his instantly and gave them a light and reassuring squeeze. "What's wrong, love?" 

"It's not..." She paused, eyes resting on their intertwined hands. She steeled herself and began. "You know that one poem I wrote? The one about goodness."

Jehan knew exactly the one she meant. Seventeen syllables filled with pain and self-doubt. He didn’t know what she meant by it, but he had scrawled something less than contemplative back, just to see her smile. She had then, but she wasn’t now. 

"It was literal," she whispered. "I'm not a good person. I can't be your favourite."

He shook his head. "You can be, and you are. I don't care what you've done, the you I know is exquisite."

Cosette bit her lip and pulled a hand away. She reached into her bag and plucked a single scribbled on sheet of lined paper from the top of her bag, as if she'd been waiting for this moment for ages. She pressed it as flat as she could and slid it across the table.

Jehan didn't let go of her hand or even reach for the paper until Cosette spoke again. “Read it. It’s for you.”

He gave her hand another squeeze, gentle and reassuring, and began to read. He read slowly, each line and each stanza sinking into his soul, and finally looked up and held her nervous gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere, Cosette. I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what you hide from me, because I know you have your reasons. I trust you, and I care about you.” He reached across the table, tilting her chin up as she turned away. “It might be selfish, but Cosette? I need you.”

She shook her head, and he took a different approach. “I’m like the moth, attracted to your light. And maybe it will hurt, but I’m okay with that, because what is the moth without that light to strive towards? It’s nothing. What’s a poet without a muse? It’s the same.”

“Do you want to know? The truth?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

The question hung in the air, and Cosette bit the inside of her lip. Finally, she whispered. “I do. But if I do, I... you’ll get pulled into it.”

He didn’t answer immediately, but he knew what he was going to say the moment she asked. He meant it when he said he needed her. And she needed him too, even though he knew she’d never say it directly. They were best friends instantly, and it wasn’t just that neither had met many people on their own. They were soulmates, not in love, but with a friendship that surpassed that. He would go to hell and back for her. He suspected that was about to be tested. He would do it anyway. “Tell me.”

“Not here,” she answered quickly. “Your dorm’s closest?”

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling on his jacket and reaching for his messenger bag. Cosette was only a half-second behind them, and they wove their way into the brisk December air. It only took a few minutes to make the walk from the coffee shop to the dormitory, where Jehan flashed his id at the scanner to let them it. They were uncharacteristically quiet, only a word of thanks when Jehan held the door open for Cosette. 

Door to his room firmly closed (and locked), they pulled off shoes and jackets and sat, for once, properly, side by side on his bed. The silence stretched on for a moment longer and then Cosette blurted out, “I’m a spy.” And then she shook her head violently. “No, that’s not right. That’s not what I mean; that doesn’t explain it.”

Jehan didn’t say anything, just let her gather her thoughts. “I work for an intelligence organisation?” she thought out loud. “That’s not quite right either.” She collapsed backward onto the bed, and Jehan pulled himself back to lean against the wall in his usual way, and just watched and waited.

“There’s an organisation,” she said finally. “It’s not big, but I’ve been part of it for ages. It’s mostly just me and my... father, and a couple of others, but we’re a proper organisation now. And we go, and we do... what governments won’t do. Either because they’re scared, or because they actively oppose it, or whatever. But we don’t do just anything, because Papa, he... we only do things for the greater good.” 

She paused, nibbling on her lip. Jehan ran his fingers through her hair and she picked up the train of thought again. “It’s not always good people we do things for, but we always do good things, and we use the money to do other good things, like actually helping people. And I’ve been doing it ever since I was little, but sometimes it’s really... there are explosions, and god... I went to boarding school because Papa was always on missions, but I still saw a lot. I learned to shoot when I was thirteen, and I killed someone when I was sixteen. And I’m good at it. I... I stabbed someone once, and I felt his life drain away at my fingertips, and I felt like I had done something good.” She shook with emotion, and tears ran streaming down her face at awkward angles. 

Jehan pulled her closer, and she rested her head in his lap. 

“I want you to know everything,” she whispered. “I need you to know. But I can’t tell you without ruining your life. God, I’ve already told you too much. You must think I’m some kind of monster.”

“I don’t think any less of you,” Jehan assured her, “and my life won’t be ruined.”

Cosette shook her head. “I can’t put you through this, though.”

“It’s okay,” he said, “I can deal with it. You said I knew you before we spoke, right? Well believe me when I say I that I know exactly what I am agreeing to. I can see it in your eyes. And I am agreeing to it.”

Cosette bit her lip and looked up at him with hope in her eyes. If he had been waffling in the slightest, the sight of them would have convinced him completely. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he promised, and she began to spill her soul to him, shattered fragments of missions gone wrong and missions gone right and running and blood and loneliness and fire. She talked for hours, and he ran his fingers through her hair and listened and listened and listened. 

Finally, Cosette pulled herself up beside him, and asked, “come meet the team?”

“When are you going?” he asked, and her smile lifted his heart.


End file.
